


Everything is More Beautiful

by Infinatesky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, But they are scared, Closeted Character, Dancing in the Snow, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Winchester is an Unreliable Narrator, Fluff and Angst, It's something I know I can't have, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Quote from The Iliad, Slow Dancing, Snow, Snowed In, The one thing I want, They want to love each other, Well it's more like slow swaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29394924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinatesky/pseuds/Infinatesky
Summary: In the morning, once the sun had risen and the snow had become nothing but icy brown patches at the edges of the road, they wouldn’t talk about this. Dean would put on the same leather jacket and lace up the same heavy boots, and maybe he’d have to look away from water on the floor if snow had melted off of them, but they wouldn’t talk about it. They would never bring it up.-The snow outside allows Dean and Cas a moment of happiness, but Dean knows it isn't real.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	Everything is More Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Title and Castiel's quote in the text from Homer's _The Iliad_.
> 
> Work inspired by the snow falling outside. Winter has finally arrived. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

They’d chosen to stay in a hotel for once, because the only motel in town was all booked. Their hotel room had two beds, even though Cas didn’t sleep, and even though they’d left Sam back at the bunker. Because Cas didn’t sleep, only one of the beds was touched -- Dean’s, with the blankets pulled back, the pillows pushed down, his leather jacket shucked and thrown at the foot of it. One sleeve hung down, touching the carpeted floor. Dean kicked it with the toe of his boot. He watched it swing back and force, once, then settle back against the floor. 

“I haven’t told you,” Dean started. He toed the sleeve of his jacket again. “I don’t need to sleep tonight. I didn’t tell you, but, I’m tellin’ you now. I’m not tired, so we-” his mouth stopped moving. Dean swore he’d had more of a point when he’d opened it in the first place. 

Cas’s shoes scuffed against the carpet. He’d been sitting on the little bench-thing, the strappy one that Dean was fairly certain was meant for suitcases. He’d never had a suitcase to put on one, to test it out. Cas had, Dean supposed, stood up off the thing.

“So we can keep goin’,” Dean added quickly. He leaned forwards with one shoulder over the bed to squeeze the collar of his leather jacket between two fingers. He could put it back on, they could get back in the Impala. 

If Dean didn’t let them stay anywhere for the night, then he wouldn’t have any opportunity to ask Cas to come to bed with him. He wouldn't find himself with any chance to pull the covers over his own shoulders, then open them again, welcoming Cas in with him. No chance to feel Cas’s warmth beside him, to wrap an arm around Cas, or to be held as he fell asleep. No chance to ruin everything. No chance to give everything away. 

If he drove fast enough, turned the music up and focused on the feel of the steering wheel under his palms, Dean could make himself stay awake. It wasn’t too long until the next town, where the streetlights would force his eyes to stay open. It wasn’t too long until morning, or until the next place that sold caffeine. 

His mind made up, Dean continued talking. “Yeah, let’s-” he pulled the jacket from the bed. He put one arm through a sleeve. “Let’s get goin’. I’ll see if we can’t get our money back.” He didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to see Cas’s face. 

Cas didn’t give Dean the chance to turn around; he walked past Dean, stopping in front of the rectangular mirror and spinning the rod until the shutters were as wide as they would go. Cas pressed his face towards the glass. His dark hair was mused in the back; he'd been sitting in the Impala with one elbow up, wrist angled down, his hands splayed over the back of his skull. Apparently, he’d been trying to tie as many knots into his hair as possible. 

Dean’s fingers taped together, wanting to smooth down the spikes of tangled hair. He shoved his hand through the other sleeve of the leather jacket. 

“We shouldn’t be driving now,” Cas said, his voice firm but gentle, as if he was speaking to a child he didn’t want to upset. 

“I’m fine to drive, Cas,” Dean said indignantly. He tugged at the blankets of the bed, trying to straighten them across the mattress. He only managed to pull one of the bottom corners forwards. He left it how it was. 

Cas’s head shook. He tugged the string and the shutters lifted towards the top of the window. He took a step back, motioning towards the exposed glass with one flat hand. 

Dean placed a knee onto the bed, leaning forwards, until he could see the dark world through the window. He blinked, squinted his eyes. All he saw was the faint outline of where the parking lot met the cement fence. He’d parked the Impala directly under the window. If someone had- If somehow- “Is Baby-?” Dean was three steps towards the door when he was stopped by Cas’s palm against his chest. 

“Not the Impala. Look again.” Cas guided him back to the window, then left him to walk across the room. A moment later, the buzzing lamp between the beds was clicked off. 

Dean pressed his nose to the glass, and tried to _look_. He couldn’t see anything, not anything, and then his eyes adjusted. In the faint light shining through the other windows, little flecks fell through the air. They twisted and fluttered, but fell unmistakably downwards. They were made of something light, slower moving than rain drops. They stuck to the ground where they hit. 

“It’s snowing,” Dean told the window. 

“It’s snowing,” Cas agreed. 

Dean pressed his nose into the glass as he tried to get a better look. He hadn’t seen snow in years, had never been far enough north. His heart slowed, calmed by some false association between snow and a family memory that had never actually happened. A day dream, a false memory, of the four of them, at Christmas time, drinking cocoa and putting on mittens and all that movie crap. 

Snow. The tiredness that Dean had been trying to force away receded on its own. He spun away from the window, grabbed at Cas, at his wrist at his waist. Or he imagined doing so. Dean had really only stood against the window, his arms stuck against his sides. Cas was still over between the beds where he’d turned the lamp off. Dean took a steadying breath through his lips. 

“Let’s go outside, Cas.” 

Cas clicked the lamp back on. He searched Dean’s face, and seemed to find something satisfactory. He dug an extra jacket out of Dean's bag, tossed it to him with an expression that left no room for argument, and led their way down the staircase, through the empty lobby, and out the double doors. Dean sorted his clothing out as they walked, his jean jacket under his leather jacket, with both collars flipped up. 

Dean’s first step outside the door was onto cement, the ground protected by the roof over the doorway. His second step was into at least an inch of snow. It stuck to his boot, dusting the toe and digging itself between the grooves. 

Dean followed Cas blindly forwards; his attention was glued downwards, to the way that the snow yielded to each press of his foot, crunching softly under his weight. The white lines for the parking stalls were just visible. They walked past cars that wouldn't be starting anytime soon. They found their way into an empty space near the back of the lot.

Cas’s fingers at the base of Dean’s neck surprised him. Dean paused, found Cas’s face through the snowy air. Cas’s skin shone a pale, sunken white. The snow falling behind him seemed to circle him in a halo. Specks of water shone in the tips of his hair. 

“Look up.” Cas’s fingers gently wound their way around Dean’s neck, and ever so slowly tilted his head back. Dean’s eyelashes fluttered as snowflakes brushed past them. His eyes adjusted, pointed right up at the sky. He felt that he’d fallen into a world where everything was softer, where that pain that always thrummed just out of his reach was less painful. 

With his head tilted upwards like this, Dean could see the path that each snowflake took, streaking from the dark sky in a smooth, sloping line. He could only watch them for a second -- too many fell into his eyes and he had to close them, but that was almost better. The snowflakes fell onto his cheeks, his chin, his forehead. Each one was like a kiss from cold lips. He opened his mouth to catch some on his tongue. He opened himself up to them, throwing his shoulders wider until the muscles in his low back began to protest. 

Cas’s hand brought him back, straightened him up, but didn’t leave its place. Dean ghosted his finger over his own cheek, not quite wiping the snowflakes away, just feeling the wetness that they had left. Cold and fresh and alive. 

Dean breathed in. He breathed out. The snow fell in sheets around them, the flakes small enough to blend together, appearing like a solid wall, like a fog. The sky seemed to glow red at the horizon. Cas had never looked so colourless, so ephemeral. Dean let his hand move slowly forwards, until it made contact with Cas’s shoulder. Cas didn’t move, didn’t flinch away. 

Dean brushed snowflakes from Cas’s trench coat, once, twice, his fingers never straying far from the firm curve of Cas’s shoulder. 

Dean shuffled his weight between his feet. The snow crunched, and even its gentle sound was sharp in the snow's blanketing quiet. Although there was a road right beside them, and although there were people in the rooms facing them, all Dean could hear was the soft falling of snow onto the ground, and all he could feel was alone. Unwatched. Only him and Cas existed; the rest had fallen away. Had been buried under the snow. 

Dean slipped his hand off of Cas’s shoulder, reaching around to press it to Cas's back instead. He moved in closer, heard his name uttered between Cas’s lips. Their chests hovered inches apart. 

“I’m cold. It’s cold,” Dean muttered -- an explanation, a half-true excuse. 

Cas’s fingers loosened and fell from Dean’s neck. Dean almost stepped back, almost broke the contact. His breath caught in his throat. He opened his mouth to apologize, and instead felt Cas’s hands brushing down over his back to hold firmly at his hips; Cas had moved them even closer, and his head was ducked towards Dean’s shoulder. Dean melted into the touch. He was a beam of heat and light though the snow. They both were. 

Snow fell onto Dean’s exposed fingers where they held around Cas’s back. Snow tickled as it landed in his hair, and caught like rain in his eyelashes. It was easier to close his eyes, to hold his breath. He only realized that they were swaying when Cas began to hum. The notes were hardly loud enough to make it through the dense quiet. 

In the morning, once the sun had risen and the snow had become nothing but icy brown patches at the edges of the road, they wouldn’t talk about this. Dean would put on the same leather jacket and lace up the same heavy boots, and maybe he’d have to look away from water on the floor if snow had melted off of them, but they wouldn’t talk about it. They would never bring it up. Cas would sit even farther to the edge of his seat in the Impala. Dean would pointedly avoid his gaze for days. 

Once they returned to a world of colour and sound, moments like this would simply not exist. Couldn’t exist. 

Dean tightened his arms around Cas’s strong back. He bunched the thick material of the trench coat within his fists. He followed Cas’s slow sways back and forth, let him turn them a quarter ways around, then around again. Their footsteps left tracks in the snow, overlapping and uneven. 

“This will never exist again.” Dean only realized he’d spoken the words aloud when Cas raised his face to answer. 

“'You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again,’” Cas said. “Homer. Ἰλιάς. The Iliad.” 

“The what?” 

“Hmm,” Cas smiled into Dean’s neck. “It’s a quote from a very old poem.” 

“As old as you?” 

“No. No many things are.” Cas returned his cheek to Dean’s shoulder. His eyes drifted shut. “It’s true, you know.” 

Dean tiled his head backwards again, to feel the cool press of the snowflakes to the flushed skin of his cheeks. “What is?” 

“You’re lovely. You-” 

Dean's frozen fingers couldn't possible hold around Cas any tighter. “You don’t mean that, Cas,” Dean said. Snowflakes caught in his mouth as he spoke. 

There was a moment of silence. Cas moved against Dean’s body, maybe leaning away to try and read his expression. Eventually, Cas said, “No, I suppose I don’t.” 

Something inside of Dean, some repressed hope, shattered. It fell like broken glass around them, mixing with the fallen snow. Dean tried to ignore it. Of course Cas hadn’t meant it. 

Dean lowered his head and pulled himself against Cas, tucking his head into the curve where Cas’s neck joined with his shoulder. The folded collar of Cas’s trench coat buried itself into Dean’s cheek. Because the material was thick, and because he was sure that Cas wouldn't be able to tell, Dean pressed his lips to Cas’s shoulder. He kissed the rough material of the trench coat, taking what precious little he could get. It was all he deserved. It was more than he deserved. 

They stepped apart, parted, and a chasm opened between them. Dean clasped his hands together, to keep them to himself, but it wasn’t necessary, because suddenly he couldn’t imagine ever being able to so much as to touch Cas’s hand while passing him a mug of coffee, or while righting his upside-down FBI badge. 

“You, uh,” Dean said without any real purpose to his words. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah. Um,” Dean’s hair was wet, and his hands were freezing. He had no idea what Cas was apologizing for. The snow was only snow, only frozen water, only weather. Dean stepped back again, starting towards the hotel entrance. “I-” 

“I should go.” Cas’s face had frozen over. No emotion showed in the set of his lips or in the curve of his eyebrows. Only in his eyes, and only because Dean had seen it there many times before, did he betray his discomfort. Dean had made Cas uncomfortable. Uncomfortable enough to leave. 

Dean could have cried. 

“Yeah, man, ‘course. I’ll, uh.” Dean scratched at the back of his neck. His fingers reminded him of Cas’s finger in the same place. He dropped his hand away. “I’ll see you in the morning?” 

“Of course.” 

“‘Course.” Dean nodded, tried to smile. He waved, but that felt stupid so he pinned his hand back to his side and led himself stiffly to the hotel door. The snow beneath his feet didn’t make a single sound louder than the pounding of his heart in his chest. 

Dean slept in a cold bed, and he didn’t get any opportunity to mess everything up by asking Cas to lay with him, because Dean had messed everything up in an entirely unexpected, unanticipated way instead. He hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t known to stop it. Apparently, the _wrongness_ encompassed too much of himself to be able to escape it. 

Cas didn’t need to know that Dean slept with his hands pressed to his mouth, breathing in the faint scent of the trench coat. Cas didn’t need to know, and if Dean was lucky, he would forget by morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated and give meaning to my life. <3
> 
> Come say hi to me on  
> [tumblr](https://infinate-sky.tumblr.com/) !


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